"Who knows?"

"Frau Sophie and I, and you will be a third directly. How unexpectedly

you returned to-day!--how can people come at such an inconvenient time?

The Danube is full of ice, the ice-flakes lie in heaps, and no living

creature can cross. One would think that on such a day the town would be

so safely shut off that even a jealous husband, if he were outside,

could not get in. How could you come to-day?"

"Do not torture me, Athalie."

"Did you not notice the confusion on your picture's face when surprised

by your arrival? Did not her hand tremble in yours? You managed your

arrival so badly; Frau Sophie had to go out again to the smart major

with the short message--'It can not be to-day.'"

Timar's face was disfigured with rage. Then he sunk back in his chair

and said, "I don't believe you."

"You need not do so," said Athalie, with a shrug. "I will only advise

you to trust your own eyes. It can not be to-day, because you have come

home; but it might be to-morrow. Suppose you went away? You often go in

winter to the Platten See, when it is frozen and they begin to fish

under the ice. It is capital sport. You might say to-morrow, 'While this

cold lasts, I will be off to Fured to see how the _fogasch_ get on,' and

then you might shut yourself up in your other house here, and wait till

some one taps at your window and says 'Now.' Then you would come back

here."

"And I should do that?" exclaimed Timar, shuddering.

Athalie looked him up and down contemptuously. "You are a coward!" and

with that she turned to go.

But Michael sprung after her and seized her by the arm.

"Stop! I will take your advice and do what you tell me."

"Then listen to me," said Athalie, and pressed so close to his face that

he felt her burning breath.

"When Herr Brazovics built this house, the room in which Timea sleeps

was the parlor. Who were his usual guests? Business people, boon

companions, merchants, dealers. This room has a hiding-place in the wall

above the staircase, where the steps turn, and the inner side makes an

angle. Into this hole in the wall it is possible to gain access from

outside. There is a closet where old rubbish is kept, which is seldom

opened. But even if it stood open it would hardly occur to any one to

try the screws of the ventilator one after another. The center screw on

the right-hand side is movable. But even if any one drew it out it would

tell nothing--it is only a simple peg. But whoever is in possession of a

peculiar key, which can be inserted in place of the peg, only requires

to press the top of the key, from which wards instantly appear, and by a

single turn of the key the cupboard is noiselessly pushed aside. From

thence one can enter the hiding-place, which receives light and air from

a slit in the roof. This hollow in the wall goes as far as Timea's

bedroom, where in former times Herr Brazovics' guests used to pass the

night. The concealed passage ends in a glass door which is hidden from

the room by a picture. This picture is a mother-of-pearl mosaic

representing St. George and the dragon, and appears to be a votive image

built into the wall. It has often been proposed to take the picture

away, but Timea never would allow it. One of the pieces of mosaic can be

slipped aside, and through the blank space everything that passes in the

room can be seen and heard."

"What did your father want with such a hiding-place?"

"I think it had to do with his business. He had many affairs with

contractors and officials. There was good living to be had at his house,

and when he had got his visitors into a good temper, he left them to

themselves, slipped into the secret room and listened from thence to

their conversation. In this way he obtained much important business

information, from which he derived considerable advantage. Once when he

had himself taken rather too much at table, he sent me to listen in the

passage, and in this way I learned the secret. The key is in my

possession. When all Herr Brazovics' property was seized by judicial

decree, I could, if I had chosen, have conveyed all his valuables out of

the house by this means. But I was too proud to steal."

"And can you get into the bedroom from this hiding-place?"

"The picture of St. George is on hinges, and can be opened like a door."

"So that you can at any time enter Timea's room from that passage?"

asked Michael, with an uncontrollable shudder.

Athalie smiled proudly. "I never needed to creep in to her by secret

routes. Timea sleeps with open doors, and you know that I can always

pass freely through her room. She sleeps so soundly too."

"Give me the key."

Athalie took the puzzle key from her pocket. The lower end was shaped

like a screw, only on pressing the handle a key appeared. She showed

Timar how to manage it. A voice in his heart--perhaps that of his

guardian angel--whispered to Timar to throw this key into the deep well

in the yard. But he took no heed of the voice; he only listened to

Athalie's whisper in his ear.

"If you leave home to-morrow and come back at the signal, go straight to

the hiding-place, and you will learn all you want to know. Will you

come?"

"I shall be there."

"Do you generally carry arms?--a pistol or a dagger?--one can never tell

what may happen. The picture of St. George opens to the right when you

press on a button-shaped handle, and when open it just covers Timea's

bed. Do you understand?"

She pressed Michael's hand violently, looking with flaming eyes of rage

into his, and added something, but not audibly. Only her lips moved, her

teeth chattered, and her eyes rolled--they were soundless words. What

could she have said? Timar stared in a dazed way like a sleep-walker,

then suddenly raised his head to ask Athalie something. He was

alone--only the key grasped in his hand showed that it was no dream.

Never had Timar suffered such torture as in the long hours till the

evening of the next day. He followed Athalie's advice, and remained at

home till noon. After dinner he said he must go to the Platten See and

look after the fishery he had hired.

As he had crossed the ice-floes of the Danube on foot to get to Komorn,

he could easily go over again without luggage in the same way. His

carriage too was waiting on that side, for it had not yet been able to

get across: a road would have to be prepared. Without any interview with

his agents, without a glance at his books, he thrust a pile of

bank-notes, uncounted, into his pocket, and left the house. At the

threshold he met the postman, who brought a registered letter, and

demanded a receipt. Michael was in too great haste to go back to his

room; he carried pen and ink with him, and laying the receipt on the

broad back of the postman, he signed his name to it. Then he looked at

the letter. It was from his agent at Rio Janeiro; but without opening

it, he put it in his pocket. What did he care for all the flour trade in

the world? He kept one room in his house in the Servian Street always

heated in winter. This room was entered by a separate staircase, which

was kept locked, and was divided by several empty rooms from the

offices. Timar reached it unobserved; there he sat down by the window

and waited.

The cold north wind outside drew lovely ice-flowers on the window-panes,

so that no one could see in or out.

Now he would get what he wanted--the proof of Timea's infidelity. And

yet--yet, the thought hurt him so deeply! While his fancy pictured this

first private rendezvous between that woman and that man, every drop of

blood seemed to rush to the surface and darken the light of his mind.

Shame, jealousy, thirst for vengeance consumed him.

It is hard to endure humiliation, even if some advantage is to be

derived from it. He now began to feel what a treasure he possessed in

Timea. He had been ready enough to abandon this treasure, or even

voluntarily to give it back, but to allow himself to be robbed of

it!--the thought enraged him. He struggled with himself as to what he

should do. If Athalie's instilled poison had reached his heart, he would

have kept to the idea of a murderous rush with a dagger in his hand from

behind the picture, so as to kill the faithless wife amidst the hottest

caresses of her lover. Athalie panted for Timea's blood; but a husband's

revenge seeks a different object--he must have the man's life. Not like

an assassin, but face to face--each with a sword in his hand, and then a

struggle for life or death. Then, again, cold-blooded calculating reason

comes uppermost, and says, "Why shed blood? you want scandal, not

revenge; you should rush from your hiding-place, call in the servants,

and drive the guilty woman and her seducer from your house. So a

reasonable being would act. You are no soldier to seek satisfaction at

the point of the sword. Here is the judge, and here the law."

But still he could not forbear from keeping stiletto and pistol ready on

the table as Athalie had advised. Who knows what may happen? The moment

will decide which gets the upper hand--whether the vengeful assassin,

the dishonored husband, or the prudent man of business who would reckon

an open scandal to his credit side, as facilitating the desired divorce.

Meanwhile evening had come. One lamp after another was lighted: Herr von

Levetinczy paid for the lighting of this street out of his own pocket.

The shadows of the passers-by flitted across the frozen panes.

One such figure stopped before the window, and a low knock was heard. It

seemed to Timar as if the ice-flowers detached from the glass by the tap

were the rustling leaves of a fairy forest, which whispered to him, "Do

not go." He hesitated. The tap was repeated.

"I am coming!" he called in a low voice, took pistol and dagger, and

crept out of the house.

The whole way he never met a human creature; the streets were already

deserted. He only saw a dark shadow flitting on before him, vanishing in

the darkness now and then, and at last slipping round the corner. He

followed, and found all the doors open; some helping hand had opened the

wicket, the house-door, and even the closet in the wall. He could enter

without any noise; at the point described he found the movable screw,

and put the key in its place; the secret door flew open, and shut behind

him.

Timar found himself in the concealed passage--a spy in his own house.

Yes! A spy too! What meanness was there he had not committed? and all

this "because a poor fellow remains always only a clerk, and it is the

rich for whom life is worth living." Now he has riches and splendor.

Stumbling and feeling about, he groped along the wall, till he came to a

part where a feeble light was perceptible. There was the picture of St.

George: the light of the lamp shone through the crevices of the mosaic.

He found the movable piece of mother-of-pearl, in whose place was a

thick sheet of glass. He looked into the room; on the table stood a lamp

with a ground glass shade. Timea walked up and down.

An embroidered white dress floated from her waist; her folded hands

hung down. The door of the antechamber opened, and Frau Sophie came in;

she said something low to Timea, but Timar could hear every whisper.

This hole in the wall was like the ear of Dionysius, it caught every

sound. "Can he come?" asked Frau Sophie.

"I am waiting for him," said Timea.

Then Frau Sophie went out again. Timea drew from her wardrobe a drawer,

and took out a box; she carried it to the table and stood opposite

Timar, so that the lamp threw its whole light on her face; the listener

could detect the slightest change of expression. Timea opened the box.

In it lay a sword-hilt and a broken blade. At first glance the woman

started, and her contracted brows betokened horror. Then her face

cleared, and took once more, with its meeting eyebrows, the look of a

saint's picture, with a black halo round its brow. Tenderness dawned in

her melancholy features; she lifted the box and held the sword so near

her lips that Timar began to tremble lest she should kiss it. Even the

sword was his rival.

The longer Timea looked at it, the brighter grew her eyes. At last she

plucked up courage to grasp the hilt; she took it out and made passes in

the air with it. . . . If she had known that there was some one near her

to whom every stroke was torture--

There was a tap at the door. Timea put down the broken sword hastily,

and stammered out a faint "Come in!" But first she pulled down the lace

of her sleeves, which had fallen back from her wrist. The major entered.

He was a fine man, with a handsome, soldierly face. Timea did not go to

meet him, but stood by the lamp; Timar's eyes never left her.

Damnation!--what did he see? As the major entered Timea blushed. Yes,

the marble statue could glow with sunrise tints, the saint's image could

move, and the virginal snow-white adorned itself with roses. The white

face had found some one who could set it on fire. Was further proof,

were words wanting?

Timar was near bursting from the picture, and, like the dragon before

St. George killed it, would have thrown himself between the two before

Timea's lips could speak what her face betrayed.

But no. Perhaps he had only dreamed it--Timea's face was colorless as

ever. With calm dignity she signed to the major to take a chair; she sat

down on a distant sofa, and her look was severe and cold. The major held

his shako in one hand, and in the other his sword with its golden knot,

and sat as stiff as if he had been in his general's presence. They

looked at each other in silence--both struggling with painful thoughts.

Timea broke the silence. "Sir, you sent me a curious letter in company

with a yet more singular present. It was a broken sword." She opened the

box and took out a letter. "Your letter runs thus: 'Gracious lady, I

have fought a duel to-day, and my adversary owes it only to the chance

that my sword broke that he was not killed on the spot. This duel is

intimately connected with most extraordinary circumstances, which

concern you, and still more _your husband_. Allow me a few minutes'

interview, that I may tell you what you ought to know.' In this letter

the words 'your husband' are twice underlined, and this it was which

decided me to give you the opportunity of speaking to me. Speak! In

what does your duel concern the private affairs of Herr von Levetinczy?

I will listen to you as long as what you have to say treats of him: if

you enter on any other subject I will leave you."

The major bowed with grateful fervor. "I will begin then, madame, by

telling you that an unknown man has been about in the town, who wears

the uniform of a naval officer, and therefore has an _entree_ to

military society. He seems to be a man of the world, and is an

entertaining companion. Who he may be I know not, for it is not my way

to be inquisitive. This man has spent some weeks among us, and seems to

have plenty of money. He gave as a reason for being here that he was

waiting for Herr von Levetinczy, with whom he had important private

affairs to settle. At last he began to annoy us, and looked so

mysterious as he asked every day about Herr von Levetinczy, that we

fancied he must be an adventurer, and one day we drove him into a

corner. We wished to know what manner of man he was, and I undertook the

inquiry. When we asked why he did not go to your husband's agents, he

said his business was of a very private and delicate nature, which could

only be personally discussed. 'Listen,' I said. 'I do not believe that

you have any delicate business with Herr von Levetinczy; who you are we

do not know, but we do know that he is a man of honor and character,

whose position and reputation are above suspicion. He is a man whose

private life is blameless, and who can therefore have no reason for

private interviews with people of your sort.'"

While the major spoke, Timea had risen slowly; she now stepped up to him

and said, "I thank you."

And again Timar saw on her white cheek that soft rosy glow, never seen

by him before, but which now rested there. The woman had flushed at the

thought that the man she loved could defend him who, as her husband,

stood between their two hearts.

The major continued his narrative, and in order not to confuse Timea by

looking at her, sought some other object in the room on which to fix his

eye. He chose the dragon's head in the picture of St. George. But that

was the exact spot through which Timar looked into the room, so that it

seemed to him as if the major directed his words purposely to him,

although it was much too dark where Timar stood for any one to see him.

"On this the man's face changed suddenly; he leaped up like a sleeping

dog when one treads on his tail. 'What!' he cried, so that every one

could hear. 'You think Levetinczy is a rich man with a great name--a

clever man, a happy family man, a faithful subject? I will prove to you

that this man, if I can once meet him, will take flight from here next

day--that he will leave his lovely wife and his house in the lurch, and

fly from Hungary, from Europe, so that you will never hear of him

again.'"

Timea's hand strayed involuntarily to the hilt of the broken sword.

"Instead of answering the man, I struck him in the face."

Timar drew back his head from the peep-hole, as if the blow might reach

him.

"I saw at once that the man regretted what he had said. He would gladly

have escaped the consequences of the blow, but I would not let him off.

I stood in his way and said, 'You are an officer and carry a sword--you

know to what such an affair leads among men of honor. There is a

ball-room upstairs at the hotel; we will have the candles lighted; then

you shall choose two of us as seconds, I also will choose two, and we

will fight it out.' We did not leave him time for reflection. The man

fought like a pirate: twice he tried to seize my sword with his left

hand; then I got angry and gave him such a cut over the head that he

fell. Luckily for him, it was with the flat of the blade, which was the

reason of my sword breaking. The next day the man, so our surgeon told

me, had left the town--his wound can not have been a dangerous one."

Timea took out the Turkish sword and looked at the hilt; then she laid

it on the table and stretched out her hand in silence to the major. He

took it gently in both his own, and carried it to his lips; it could

hardly be seen whether he kissed it. Timea did not draw it away.

"I thank you!" whispered the major, so low that Timar could not hear it

in his hiding-place, but the eyes said it too. A long pause followed.

Timea sat down again on the sofa and supported her head on her hand.

The major spoke at last. "I did not request an interview, gracious lady,

to boast of a deed which in itself must be painful to you, and was

really only the duty of a friend, nor to receive the thanks you so

kindly offered me by a grasp of the hand. That was a more than

sufficient reward. But not on that account did I request you to meet me,

but to ask a very important question. Gracious lady, is it possible that

there should be any truth in what this man said?"

Timea started as if struck by lightning. And the bolt struck Timar too;

every nerve thrilled at the question.

"What are you thinking of?" cried Timea, passionately.

"At last it is out," said the major, rising from his chair. "And now I

will not go without an answer. I say openly, is it possible that there

is truth in this accusation? I have not repeated all that this man said

about Levetinczy: he accused him of everything that can be said against

a man. Is it conceivable that Timar's life could take such a frightful

course as that which the last owner of this unlucky house only escaped

by death? For if that is possible, then no respect could restrain me

from beseeching you in God's name, dear lady, to delay not a moment in

fleeing from this doomed house. I can not leave you to ruin--I can not

look on while another drags you into the abyss."

The glowing words found a response in Timea's bosom. Timar watched in

trembling excitement his wife's mental conflict. Timea remained

victorious; she collected all her energy, and answered quietly, "Do not

be alarmed, sir. I can assure you that that man, whoever he was, and

wherever he came from, told a lie, and his accusations are groundless. I

know intimately the position of Herr von Levetinczy; for during his

absence I managed his affairs, and am thoroughly acquainted with every

detail. His finances are in order, and even if all he has now at stake

were lost by some unlucky chance, no pillar of his house would be

shaken. I can also tell you with a clear conscience that of all his

property there is not a thaler dishonestly come by. Levetinczy is a rich

man, who need not blush for his wealth."

Why did Timar's cheeks burn so there in the darkness?

The major sighed. "You have convinced me, gracious lady; I never

believed anything against his financial reputation. But this man had

much to say about your husband in his character as head of a family.

Allow me to ask you one thing: Are you happy?"

Timea looked at him with inexpressible pathos, and in her eyes lay the

words, "You see me, and yet you ask?"

"Riches and luxury surround you," continued the major, boldly; "but if

that is true--which on my honor I never asked, and which, when told me,

I answered with the lie direct, and a blow in the face--if it is true

that you suffer and are unhappy, I should not be a man if I had not the

courage to say to you, gracious lady, there is another who suffers like

you. Throw far from you these unlucky riches; make an end of this

suffering of two people, who in the next world can accuse a third person

in the sight of God of being the cause of it: consent to a divorce!"

Timea pressed both hands to her breast, and looked up like a martyr on

her road to the stake: all her anguish was aroused at this moment.

When Timar saw her so, he struck his forehead with his fist, and turned

his face from the Judas-hole through which he had been looking. For the

next few moments he saw and heard no more. When torturing curiosity drew

him again to the spot of light, and he cast a look into the room, he no

longer saw a martyr before him. Timea's face was calm.

"Sir," she said gently to the major, "that I should have heard you to

the end is a proof of my respect. Leave me this feeling, and never again

ask me what you did to-day. I call the whole world to witness whether I

have ever complained by word or tear. Of whom should I complain? Of my

husband, who is the noblest and best man in the world? Of him who saved

the strange child's life? who thrice defied death in the waters' depths

for my sake? When I was a despised and derided creature he protected me;

for my sake he visited the house of his deadly enemy, that he might

watch over me. When I had become a homeless beggar he gave me--a

servant--his hand, his riches, and made me mistress of his house. And

when he offered me his hand he meant it; he was not deceiving me." As

she spoke, Timea went to a closet and opened the doors. "Look here,

sir," she said, as she spread out before the major the train of a dress

hanging within. "Do you recognize this dress? It is the one I worked.

You saw it for weeks while I worked at it. Every stitch is a buried

dream, a sad memory to me. They told me it was to be my wedding-gown;

and when it was finished, they said, 'Take it off: it is for another

bride.' Ah! sir, that was a mortal stab to my heart: I have been sore

from that incurable wound all these years. And now should I separate

myself from the good man who never courted me, as a child, with

flatteries, to turn my head, but remained respectfully in the distance,

and waited till others had trodden me under foot to raise me to

himself, and has never ceased, with superhuman, angelic patience, his

endeavors to cure my wound and to share my sorrow with me? I should

separate from the man who has no one but me to love him, to whom I am a

whole world, the only being that ties him to life, or at whose coming

his gloomy face is cheered? I should leave a man whom every one honors

and loves? Tell him that I hate him--I, who owe everything to him, and

who brought him no dowry but a sick and loveless heart?"

The major hid his face at these words of the passionate and excited

woman. And that other man behind the picture of St. George--must he not

feel like the dragon when the knight thrust his spear into him?

"But, sir," continued Timea, whose lovely face was illumined by the

irresistible charm of womanly dignity, "even if Timar were the exact

opposite of all that he is known to be--if he were a ruined man, a

beggar--I would not leave him--then least of all. If disgrace covered

his name, I would not discard that name; I would share his shame, as I

have shared his success. If the whole world despised him, I should still

owe him eternal gratitude; if he were exiled, I would follow him into

banishment, and live with him in the woods if he were a robber. If he

wished to take his life, I would die with him--"

(What is that? Is it the dragon that weeps there in the picture?)

"And, sir, if even the bitterest, cruelest insult of all to a woman were

inflicted on me--if I learned that my husband was unfaithful, to

me--that he loved another--I would say, 'God bless her who gave him the

happiness of which I have robbed him;' and I would not even then divorce

him--I would not do it if he wished it. I will never separate from him,

for I know what is due to my oath and the salvation of my soul!"

And the major too sobbed--he too.

Timea stopped to recover her composure. Then in a soft and gentle voice

she continued: "And now leave me forever. The stab you gave my heart

years ago is healed by this sword-stroke: I keep this broken blade as a

remembrance. As often as my eye falls on it, I will think that you are a

brave soul, and it will be balm to me. And because for years you have

never spoken to me nor approached me, I will forgive your having come

and spoken to me now." . . .

When Timar burst through the closet out of the hiding-place, a dark

figure stood in his way. Was it a shadow, a phantom, or a spirit? It was

Athalie. Timar pushed, the dark figure away, and while he pressed her

with one hand against the wall, he whispered in her ear, "I curse you!

and accursed be this house and the ashes of him who built it!"

Then he rushed like a madman down the stairs.

CHAPTER II.

THE FIRST LOSS.

Escape! But where? That is the question.

The church clocks in the town struck ten: the barriers were down by now

across the wooden bridge over the narrow part of the river to the

island, from which the ice formed the only road across the rest of the

Danube. It was impossible to get past without alarming the sentries, who

had orders from the commandant of the garrison to let no one go on the

ice between eight in the evening and seven in the morning--not even the

pope himself. It is true that a couple of bank-notes of Herr

Levetinczy's might compass what a papal bull could not procure, but then

it would be reported next day all over the town that the "man of gold"

had fled in haste and alone, at dead of night, across the dangerous ice.

That would be a good sequel to the gossip which had arisen from the

duel. It would at once be said, "There, you see he is already thinking

of escaping to America," and Timea would hear it too.

Timea! oh, how hard it is to evade that name; it follows him everywhere.

He can do nothing but return home and wait for daylight. As cautiously

as a thief he opened his door. At this hour all the other inhabitants

were asleep.

When he got to his room, he lighted no lamp, and threw himself on the

sofa. But the phantoms which pursued him found him quite as easily in

the dark.

How that marble face blushed!

So there is life there under the ice, only the sun is wanting. Marriage

is for her eternal winter--a polar winter. The wife is faithful; and the

rival is a true friend. He breaks his sword over the skull of him who

dared to slander the husband of the beloved woman. And Timea loves the

man, and is as unhappy as he. The misery of both comes from Timar's

imputation as an honest man; those who love him idealize him; no one

ventures to think of deceiving or robbing or disgracing him--of breaking

a splinter from the diamond of his honor: they guard it like a jewel.

Why do they all respect him? Because no one knows him.

If Timea knew, if she discovered what he really was, would she still

say, "I would share the shame of his name, as I have shared its glory!"

Yes; she would still say so. Timea will never leave him: she would say,

"You have made me unhappy; now suffer with me." It is an angel's

cruelty, and that is Timea's nature.

But how about Noemi? What is she doing on the lonely island which she

can never leave, thanks to Timea's high principle? Alone during the

gloomy monotony of winter, with a helpless child at her knee! What is

she thinking of? No one can take her a word of consolation. She may be

trembling in that desert for fear of bad men, ghosts, wild beasts! How

her heart must sink when she thinks of her absent darling, and wonders

where he may be! If she knew! If both those women knew what a thorough

scoundrel was the man who had caused them so much sorrow--if any one was

found to tell them!

Who can the stranger be who has already said enough to deserve a blow in

the face, and a cut of the major's sword? A naval officer. Who can this

enemy be? It is impossible to discover; he has disappeared with his

wound from the town. Something told Timar it would be wise to fly from

this man. Fly! his whole mind was set upon it--there was nothing he

dreaded so much as being obliged to remain in one spot. As soon as he

left the ownerless island, no place was a home to him. When he stopped

for dinner on a journey, he could not wait till the horses were fed, but

walked on ahead. Something always drove him onward.

And sleep had fled from his eyes. The clock struck twelve; seven more

long hours till morning! He determined at last to kindle a light. For

mental anxiety there is a remedy more effectual than opium or

digitalis--prosaic work. Whoever has plenty to do, finds no time to

dwell on love troubles. Merchants seldom commit suicide for love. Cares

of business are a wholesome counter-irritant to draw the blood from the

nobler parts.

Michael opened and read his letters in turn: all contained good news. He

remembered Polycrates, with whom everything succeeded, and who began at

last to be afraid of his luck.

And what was the foundation of this monstrous success? A secret unknown

to all but himself. Who had seen Ali Tschorbadschi's treasure spread out

in the cabin? Only himself--and the moon. But that is an accomplice, and

has seen other things too. It is the "Hypomochlion" of creation, to

prevent crimes from coming to light. Michael was too deeply sensitive by

nature not to feel that such overwhelming good fortune, springing from

so foul a root, must eventually fall into dust--for there is justice

under the sun. He would joyfully have looked on at the loss of half his

wealth, or even given up all, if so he could have hoped to close his

account with Heaven. But he felt that his penance consisted in the fact

that his riches, influence, the renown of his name, his supposed

home-happiness, were only a cruel irony of fate. They buried him, and he

could not extricate himself to live the only happy life, whose center

was Noemi--and Dodi. When the first Dodi died, he learned what he had

been to him. Now, with the second, he felt it still more; and yet he

could not make them his own. He lay buried under a mountain of gold

which he could not shake off. What he had seen in the delirium of fever,

he now really felt. He lay buried alive in a grave full of gold. Above

his head stood on the grave-stone a marble statue which never

moved--Timea. A beggar-woman with a little child came to gather thyme on

his tomb--Noemi. And the man buried alive vainly strove to cry out,

"Give me your hand, Noemi, and pull me out of this golden tomb!"

Timar went on with his correspondence. One letter was from the Brazilian

agents. His favorite scheme--the export of Hungarian flour--had been

brilliantly successful. Timar had gained by it honor and wealth. As he

ran through the letters, it occurred to him that when he left home in

the morning he had received a registered letter with a foreign stamp. He

found the letter in his coat pocket. It was from the same correspondent

whose favorable report he had just read, and ran thus:

"SIR,--Since my last, a great misfortune has occurred.

Your _protege_, Theodor Krisstyan, has cheated us

shamefully and brought disgrace on us. We are blameless

in the matter. This man has for years past seemed so

trustworthy and active, that we put the most perfect

confidence in him; his salary and commission were so

large that he could not only live comfortably, but

could save money, which he invested in our house.

While he left his avowable savings to grow to a small

capital in our hands, he robbed us

frightfully--intercepted money, forged bills, and made

false claims on the firm, which was easy, as he had

your power of attorney--so that our loss already

amounts to some ten million reis. But what makes it

more serious is the discovery that during the last few

years he has been mixing the imported flour with some

of inferior quality from Louisiana, and by this Yankee

trick has seriously impaired the credit of the

Hungarian article for years to come--even if we are

ever able to restore it."

"This is the first blow," thought Timar; and on the most tender point

for a great financier. It touched him in what he was most proud of, and

what had obtained for him the rank of a privy councilor. And so falls

the brilliant fabric erected by Timea--Timea again!

Timar read on hurriedly--

"Bad company has led the young criminal astray: this is

a dangerous temptation in this climate. We had him

arrested at once, but none of the stolen money was

found in his possession. He had lost part at the

gambling-table, and got rid of the rest with the help

of the Creoles; but it is quite possible that the rogue

has managed to conceal considerable sums, in the hope

of being able to get at them when again at liberty.

However, he must wait some time, for the court here has

sentenced him to fifteen years at the galleys."

Timar could read no further. He let the letter fall on the table; then

he stood up and began to pace the room restlessly.

Fifteen years at the galleys! Fifteen years chained to the bench, and

nothing to look at all that time but sky and sea! Fifteen years to

endure the sickening noonday heat, without hope or comfort--to endure

life on the ever-restless sea, and curse unmerciful man! He will be an

old man before he gets his freedom. And why? In order that Herr Michael

Timar, Baron von Levetinczy, may live undisturbed in his forbidden joys

on the ownerless island--that no one may betray Noemi to Timea, nor

Timea to Noemi. You never thought of this when you sent Theodor to

Brazil, and yet you did count on the chance of opportunity making him

into a thief. You did not lay him dead on the spot with a bullet, as a

man kills in a duel him who stands in the way of his love. You pretended

to a paternal affection for him, and sent him on a three-thousand miles'

voyage; and now you will look on at this slow decay through fifteen

horrible years--for you will see him, though all the earth and all her

oceans lie between!

The stove had gone out. It was cold in the room, whose windows were

covered with frost-flowers. And yet sweat dropped from Timar's brow, as

he strode up and down the narrow space. So, then, every one is

consecrated to misfortune to whom he gives his hand--on that hand is a

curse.

Oh, what an awful night this is! Will it never be day? He felt as if

this room were a dungeon or a tomb.

But the terrible letter had a postscript. Timar came back to the table

to read it. The postscript was dated a day later, and ran thus: "I have

just received a letter from Port-au-Prince, in which we are informed

that three slaves have escaped from the galley on which our prisoner was

placed. I fear our man is among them."

After the perusal of these lines, Timar was a prey to indescribable

anxiety. Though he had been perspiring before, he began to shiver now.

Had the fever returned? He looked round fearfully. What was he afraid

of? He was alone in the room, and as frightened as a child who has been

hearing ghost stories. He could not endure the room any longer. He took

out his pocket-pistol and looked to its priming; then he tried his

dagger, whether it was loose in its sheath.

Away! It was still night--not yet two o'clock; but he could not await

the morning light here. And could he not get across to the Uj-Szony side

without a bridge? Above the island the ice would bear. It only required

a man who was less afraid of darkness and danger than of the flickering

candle and the outspread letter. He held that over the light and burned

it; then he blew out the candle and crept out of the window.

Only when he was in the street did he feel his heart lighter: here he

was a man again. Meanwhile fresh snow had fallen, which he heard

crackling under his feet while he hurried to the shore, along the whole

Servian Street right up to the harbor.

CHAPTER III.

THE ICE.

The Danube was completely frozen over up to Prestburg, and could be

crossed anywhere. Still, in order to cross from Komorn to Uj-Szony, he

had to go round a long way by the point of the island, for sand-banks

exist there on which in summer the miners wash their gold, and on these

mounds the ice often lies in great heaps, forming barricades difficult

to surmount. Timar had a plan ready; as soon as he came in sight of the

Monostor, where stood his villa, he would strike out in that direction.

But something intervened to upset his calculations. He had expected a

starry night, but when he reached the Danube a fog came on. At first

only thin, transparent mist; but while Timar was seeking a path on the

ice, the fog became so thick that you could not see three steps in front

of you. If he had given ear to the voice of reason, he would have

instantly turned round and tried to find his way back to the bank. But

he was in a frame of mind in which a man is inaccessible to reason; by

fair means or foul he meant to get across. Apart from the fog, it was a

dark night; and above the island the Danube is at its widest, and the

passage over the ice-floes the most difficult. Monstrous heaped-up

masses of frozen snow form oblique stretches of barricade, and in many

places the ice takes the shape of capriciously cleft ridges, from which

rise six-foot pinnacles of frozen water instead of fingers of rock. In

coasting round these, Timar suddenly found that he had lost himself. He

had already been an hour on the river; his repeater struck a quarter to

three; he ought long ago to have reached the other side; he must have

lost his reckoning.

He listened; no sound in the dark night. It was beyond question that he

was not approaching the opposite village, but getting further away from

it. Not even a dog could be heard to bark. He fancied that instead of

crossing the river he must have been walking along it, and determined to

change his course. The Danube was nowhere more than two hundred paces

wide; he must reach the shore somewhere if he kept straight on. But in

mist and darkness one does not know which way one goes; a barrier of ice

which must be avoided takes one, in spite of every care, out of the

right road--one walks in zigzags and comes back to the spot where one

was before; even if you get into the right path, and would only have to

walk on to reach the bank, you think of something else, deviate

slightly, and get back into that confounded ice labyrinth again.

Past five. Nearly four hours already had he wandered about. He felt

exhausted. He had not slept all night, nor eaten all day, but had

struggled with the most enervating mental emotions.

His only hope was, that when day at last dawned he would be able to

guess by the sun where the east lay, and then, as an old sailor, could

ascertain his position. If he had come across a hole in the ice, the

current of the water would have shown him in what direction to go; but

the surface was entirely covered, and without an ax it was impossible to

make a hole. At last it began to dawn, but the fog hid the sun. Nine

o'clock, and he had not yet found the shore, though the fog seemed to

grow less and the sun's disk was visible, like a pale, colorless ball, a

mere shadow of its glorious self. The air was full of countless

glittering particles of ice, which melted into a dazzling vapor. Now he

will discover where he is.

The sun was already too high to indicate the true east, but it showed

something else. It seemed to Timar, as he peered through the brilliant

mist, as if he could distinguish on his right the outline of the roof of

a house.

Where there is a house there must be land. He walked straight toward it,

and was careful to keep in a direct line; soon he found himself close to

it--but the house was a water-mill.

The ice-floes had detached it from its winter refuge, or perhaps had

found it belated, still chained to the shore, and carried it off. The

shrouds were as neatly sawn asunder by the sharp ice-flakes as if a

clever carpenter had done it: the wheels were shattered and the

mill-house wedged into a mass of ice, forming a parapet round it.

Timar stood before it in horror. His head swam as if he had seen a

ghost. The sunken mill in the Perigrada whirlpool occurred to him. Is

not this the ghost of that mill which comes to visit him at the end of

his career, or perhaps to take possession of him? A ruined mill amidst

the ice! A house so near its downfall! He went in; the door was open,

probably from the shocks received amidst the blocks of ice. The

machinery was all complete, so that Timar felt at any moment the white

miller's ghost might enter and shake the meal into the sacks. On the

roof, the beams, on every little ledge sat crows. A couple of them

fluttered away when they saw him; the rest sat still and took no notice

of him.

Timar was dead beat. For eight hours continuously he had wandered on

the ice; the hinderances he had met with had fatigued him yet more; his

stomach was empty, his nerves overstrained, his limbs stiff with cold.

He sat down exhausted on a post inside the mill.

His eyes closed. And hardly had they done so before he saw himself

standing at the bow of the "St. Barbara," with the hatchet in his hand,

and near him the girl with the pale face.

"Away from here!" he cried to her; the ship rushed down the cataract.

The wave-curl came to meet them. "Into the cabin!" But the girl never

stirred. Then the sea struck the ship. Timar fell from his seat: that

woke him, and he realized his danger. If he fell asleep there, he would

certainly freeze to death. No doubt that is the easiest way to take

one's life; but he had work to do in the world--his hour had not struck.

He went out of the mill--the fog was too thick to see anything; it was

not day but night. The sighs which might go up to Heaven are swallowed

in the dark clouds which will not let them pass. Was there nothing

living near to help him in his extremity?

When the mill was carried away by the ice there were mice in it: they

waited till the ice had set; then they left the mill and found their way

to the shore--on the thin snow-covering their tiny footsteps were

visible. Timar followed them. The smallest of all the mammalia in this

way conducted the wise and strong human being for a whole half hour till

he reached the shore. Thence he easily found the road, and arrived at

the inn where he had left the post-chaise. Mist was behind and before

him, and no one saw whence he came. In the parlor he devoured salt

calves'-feet which had been prepared for the wagoners, drank a glass of

wine, had the horses put to, lay down in the carriage, and slept till

evening. He dreamed constantly that he was on the ice; and when the

carriage shook, he awoke under the impression that the ice had broken

under him, and that he was sinking into fathomless depths.

As he had started late from Szony, he only reached his villa at Fured

the next evening. The fog accompanied him the whole way, so thick that

he could not see the Platten See. They were preparing for the first

catch of the season next day; he gave orders to his steward to have

ready plenty of wine and malt brandy.

Galambos, the old fishing overseer, predicted a large haul. One good

sign was that the lake had frozen so early. At this time, just before

spawning, the fish come up the gulf in shoals. It was a still better

omen that Herr von Levetinczy had come himself. He always had luck.

"I--luck!" echoed Timar to himself, sighing heavily.

"I would almost venture to bet that we shall catch the king of the

fogasch himself."

"How do you mean, the king?"

"It is an old fogasch which every fisherman on the lake knows, for we

have all had him in our nets in turn; but no one can land him, for when

he finds he is caught he works a hole at the bottom with his snout, and

manages to get out of the net. He is a regular rogue; we have put a

price on his head, for he destroys as many young fry as three fishermen.

He is a huge beast, and when he swims on the surface, one would think

he was a whale; but we'll get him to-morrow."

Timar did not contradict, but sent every one away and lay down. Now he

first felt how tired he was; and he slept a long and healthy sleep,

undisturbed by dream-faces. When he awoke he was perfectly fresh; even

the anxieties which occupied his mind had faded into the background as

if they were a year distant. The small span of time between to-day and

yesterday seemed like an eternity. It was not yet daylight, but it

surprised him that the moon was shining through the frost-covered panes.

He got up quickly, bathed as usual in icy water, dressed, and hurried

out to see the Balaton.

This presents, when frozen--especially the few first days--a most

enchanting sight. The huge lake does not freeze like rivers, on which

the ice masses gradually collect: here in one moment of calm the whole

surface is covered with a sheet of ice like crystal; and in the morning

a smooth unruffled mirror is outspread. Under the moonlight it is a

looking-glass in one piece without a flaw--only the tracks are visible

upon it, by which the inhabitants of the contiguous villages communicate

with each other. They traverse it like measuring-lines on some great

glass table--you see the reflection of the mountains of Tihany, with the

double tower of the church, as distinctly as if it were real, only the

towers are upside down.

Timar stood long absorbed in this fairy picture. The fishermen woke him

from his dream; they arrived with nets, poles, and ice-axes, and said

the work must begin before sunrise. When all had assembled, they formed

a circle, and the old chief intoned a pious hymn, which all repeated

after him. Timar walked away; he could not pray. How should he address a

psalm to Him who is omniscient, and who can not be deceived by songs and

hymns? The music could be heard two miles away over the level surface,

and the echoes of the shore repeated the sound. Timar walked a long way

over the lake. At last it began to dawn, the moon paled, and the eastern

horizon was tinted with rosy red, which caused a wonderful

transformation in the color of the giant ice mirror, dividing it into

two sharply contrasted halves. One side assumed a coppery-violet hue,

while the other looked azure blue against the pink sky.

In proportion to the growing light, the splendor of the sight increased;

the purple red, the gold of the sky, were repeated in the pure

reflection, and when the glowing ball, radiant with fiery vapor, shot up

from the violet mists of the horizon and shone down on the glittering

surface, it was a spectacle such as neither sea nor land can show, as if

two suns rose at once in two real skies. The moment the sun had passed

through the earth-fogs, its glorious rays leaped forth.

The fishing-captain Galambos cried from the distance to Timar, "Now you

will hear something. Don't be afraid! Ho! ho!"

"Afraid!" thought Timar, shrugging his shoulders, incredulously. What in

the world could frighten him now? He would soon know.

When the sun first shines on the frozen lake, a wonderful sound is heard

from the ice, as if thousands of fairy harp-strings were struck. One is

reminded of the tones from Memnon's statue, only that it does not last

so long. The mysterious cling-clang grows louder, as if the nixies down

below struck their harps with all their force: then follows a droning

and cracking, almost as loud as a shot, and on every snap follows a

glittering fissure in the ice, which till then was clear as glass. In

every direction the gigantic mirror is flawed till it is like a huge

mosaic, formed of millions of tiny dice, pentagons, and many-sided

prisms, and whose surface is of glass. This is what causes the sound. He

who hears it for the first time finds his heart beating faster; the

whole surface hums, rings, and sings under his feet. Some cracks are

like thunder, and are heard miles away. The fishermen, however, proceed

quietly with the spreading of their nets on the top of the groaning ice,

and in the distance may be seen hay wagons, drawn slowly by four oxen

across the surface. Man and beast are used to the ice-voices, which last

till sunset.

This remarkable phenomenon made a curious impression on Michael's mind.

He was very sensitive to the great life of nature. In his emotional

temperament the thought was implanted that everything living has

consciousness--wind, storm, and lightning, the earth itself, the moon

and stars. But who could understand what the ice under his feet was

saying?

Then suddenly was heard a fearful detonation as if a hundred cannon had

been fired at once, or a subterranean mine had been exploded--the whole

surface trembled and shook. The effect of this thunderous convulsion was

fearful--the ice opened in a cleft three thousand yards long, and

between the edges of the floes yawned a six-foot chasm. "_A Rianas!

a Rianas!_" (the ice-cleft), cried the fishermen, and ran to the place,

abandoning their nets.

Timar stood only two paces from it. He had seen it happen. His knees

trembled with the frightful shock, which had driven the two ice masses

apart; he was stunned with the effect of this natural phenomenon. The

arrival of the fishermen roused him; they told him that among the

natives this fissure was called _Rianas_, a word unknown elsewhere. It

was a great danger for travelers across the lake, for it was not visible

far off, and it never froze over, because the water was always moving in

it. It was therefore the first care of these good people, wherever a

footpath led to the crack, to plant at both edges a pole in the ice with

a bundle of straw at the top, so that those who approach might have

warning. "But what is even more dangerous," said the fisherman, "is

when, under great pressure of wind, the separated floes again unite.

Then there is such a grinding and crushing! Very often the power of the

wind is sufficient to raise the edges of the two floes, so that there is

an empty space between the water and the uplifted ice. God pity those

who go over there without knowing it, for the ice which does not touch

the water is certain to give way under them!"

It was nearly noon before they could get to work. It is capital sport,

this fishing under the ice. In the bay, where the fishermen's experience

tells them the shoals of fish will lie, two large holes are made in the

ice some fifty fathoms apart, and then a square of smaller holes is

formed, so that the two large openings form the opposite angles. The

pieces of ice hewn from the holes are piled round their edges, so that

passengers may be warned of the danger of falling in. When the sun

shines on these white heaps, they look like colossal diamonds. The

fishermen sink the huge net sideways into the large hole, spread out its

two ends, and fasten them on poles, each three and a half fathoms in

length. One man pushes the pole with the net under the ice, while

another waits at the next small hole, and when the pole appears there he

pushes it on to the third hole, and so on, while the other side of the

square is being treated in the same way with the second pole and the

other end of the net. Both meet at the opposite large hole. The net,

which is sunk to the bottom with lead weights, while its top edge is

held up by ropes over the ice, forms an absolute prison for all the fish

within the square, which usually swarm at this season. The fogasch and

sheath fish leave their miry bed and come up to breathe at the

ice-holes; they have their family festivals in the winter, when

cold-blooded animals make love. The strong ice-roof protects them from

the foreign element, but not from its inhabitants--men.

The ice now only assists in their destruction. When they discover that

the net is pressing on them, it is already too late to find an outlet.

They can not leap out, because the ice shuts them in, and even the

fogasch can not as usual burrow in the mud, to get under the net, for

the weight of his splashing companions leaves him no space to work. The

fishermen lay hold on the rope and draw steadily. The united exertion of

twenty men shows how great is the strain on them; it must be several

hundred-weight. The surface of the large hole begins to be alive with

the crowd of fishes pressing to the only outlet, there to meet their

death. Various forms of fish-mouths peep out of the water--transparent

jelly-fish, red tails, blue, green, and silver scales press up, and

between them comes up sometimes a great silurian, the shark of the

Balaton, a Wels of a hundred pounds' weight, with wide jaws and

horse-shoe mustache; but it disappears into the depths again, as if to

find safety there.

Three fishermen dip the living crowd out from the top with large

landing-nets, and throw the fish on to the ice without more ado, where

old and young leap about together: thence they can not escape, for the

holes are all surrounded with heaps of ice. It is a regular witches'

dance--wide-mouthed carp leaping high in air, the pike in its despair

wriggling like a snake among the gasping heaps of perch and bass. One

conger after another is hauled out with a hook and thrown on the frozen

surface, where, laying down his ugly head, he flaps his fellow-prisoners

into pieces with his heavy tail. The space around the hole is all

covered with fishes. The carp jump like water-rats, but no one

notices--they can not get away. The lazier fishes lie in heaps on both

sides.

"I said so," murmured old Galambos; "I knew we should have a good catch.

Wherever our gracious master shows himself, luck comes with him. If only

we could catch the fogasch-king."

"If I am not mistaken, we've got him in there," said the man who was

next him at the rope. "There's some great beast shooting about in the

net; I feel it in both my arms."

"Ha! there he is!" cried another, whose landing-net was full of fish,

as an enormous head like that of a white crocodile appeared above the

water. The whole head was white; in the open mouth were two rows of

sharp teeth like those of an alligator, but with four fangs meeting like

a tiger's--a formidable head indeed. They may well call him the king of

the lake, for there is no other creature in it, even of his own race,

able to vie with him.

"There he is!" screamed three others at once, but the next instant the

brute had sunk; and now began the struggle.

As if the imprisoned brute had suddenly given the word to his body-guard

for a last and decisive combat, a dangerous tumult began inside the net.

The skirmishing corps of pike and carp ran their heads against the

tightly drawn meshes; the men were obliged to beat down the marine

giants with loaded staves. The fishes became furious; the cold-blooded

creation showed itself capable of heroic devotion, and rose against the

invaders in pitched battle. The struggle ended in the defeat of the

fishes. The dog-fish were knocked on the head, the net shook out many

beautiful white fogasch and schille; but the fogasch-king would not show

himself.

"He has got away again," grumbled the old chief.

"No, no; he is in the net still!" said the hauling-men, clinching their

teeth. "I feel by my arms how he is pushing and fighting; if only he

does not break the net."

The catch was enormous already; there was no room to stand without

treading on fishes.

"There goes the net! I heard it crack!" cried the first man. Half the

net was still in the water.

"Haul!" growled the old fisherman, and all the men put out their whole

strength. With the net came the rest of the fishes, and the fogasch-king

was among them--a splendid specimen indeed, more than forty pounds

weight, such as is only seen once in twenty years. He had really torn

the net with his great head; but he had caught his prickly fins in the

meshes, and could not get free. When they got him out he gave one of the

men a blow with his tail which knocked him backward on the ice. But that

was his last effort; the next moment he was dead. No one has ever held a

living fogasch in his hand. It is thought that his lungs burst as he is

taken out of water, and he dies instantly.

The delight of the fishermen at the capture of this one was greater than

over the whole rich haul. They had been after him for years; and every

one knew the cannibal, for he had the bad habit of eating his own kind.

That was why he was king. When he was opened they found a large fogasch

in his inside, quite recently swallowed; his flesh was overlaid with a

thick layer of yellow fat, and white as linen.

"Now, honored sir, we will send him to the gracious lady," said the old

fisherman. "We will pack him in ice, and your honor will write a letter

and say he is the king of the fogasch. Whoever eats him will eat a

king's flesh."

Michael approved the suggestion, and assured the men they should get a

reward. When they had finished with the fogasch, the short winter's day

had come to a close; but only in the sky, not on the ice--there it was

lively enough. From every village came the people with baskets and

hampers and wooden kegs; in the kegs was wine, in the hampers pork, but

the baskets were meant for the fish. When it came to the division of the

spoil, a complete fair formed round the fishermen. After sunset, torches

were made of dry osier-twigs, fires were lighted on the ice, and then

began the bargaining. Carp and pike, conger and bass, are good enough

for poor people. Only the fogasch and schille are sent to Vienna and

Pesth, where they fetch high prices; all the rest go for a song--and

even so there is room for a large profit, for in one haul they had

caught three hundredweight of fish. This Timar is indeed a favorite of

fortune! The unsold fish are packed in baskets and put in the ice-house,

whence they will be sent to the Vessprimer market.

Timar wanted to give a feast to all the assembled crowd. He had a

ten-gallon cask brought on to the ice and the top knocked out; then he

begged the captain to prepare a fish-soup, such as he only could

concoct. Certain selected fishes, neither rich nor bony, were cut in

pieces into a great kettle; then some of the blood, and handfuls of

maize and vegetables, were added. The whole art lies in the proper

proportions of the mixture, which the uninitiated never understand. Of

this delicious mess Herr Timar himself consumed an incredible quantity.

Where good wine flows and fish-soup is brewed, be sure there will be

gypsies to be found. Almost before they thought of it, a brown band of

musicians appeared, who, as soon as the cymbal-player was seated on an

upturned basket, began to play popular airs.

Where gypsies and rosy wenches and fiery youths get together, dancing

will soon begin. In a twinkling a rustic ball was improvised on the ice,

and rose to a frolicsome height. Round the bonfires circled the active

couples, shouting, as they leaped, like King David, and before he knew

where he was, Timar too, whom a handsome girl had caught by the arm, was

drawn into the whirl. Timar danced.

In the clear winter darkness the cheery fires illuminated the ice for

many a mile. The fun lasted till midnight. Meanwhile the fishermen had

finished carrying the fish into the ice-house. The joyous crowd

dispersed on their homeward way, not without cheers for the feast-giver,

the generous Baron von Levetinczy.

Timar stayed till Galambos had packed the fogasch-king in a box, between

ice and hay, and nailed the lid down. It was put into the chaise which

had brought Timar, and the driver was told to get ready to drive for his

life to Komorn: there is no time to lose in dispatching fish. He wrote

himself to Timea. The letter was written in an affectionate and cheerful

mood. He called her his dear wife, and described the picturesque scene

on the frozen lake, and the terrible cleft in the ice. (That he had been

so near the _Rianas_ he did not mention.) Then he gave a description of

the fishing, with all its amusing details, and finished with an account

of the night festival. He told her how much he had been entertained, and

how he had quite lost his head, and even ventured on a dance with a

pretty peasant girl on the ice.

Some men write these amusing letters when they are contemplating

suicide. When the letter was ready he took it to the driver. The old

fisherman was there too. "Go home now, Galambos," Michael advised. "You

must be tired."

"I must go and make up the fire on the ice," said the old man, lighting

his pipe, "for the smell of fish brings the foxes and even bears from

all the forests round, to fish on their own account: they watch for the

fishes, which put their heads out of the holes, and drag them out, and

that frightens away the others."

"No, no!" said Michael, "don't keep up the fire. I will keep guard--I

often watch all night. I will go out now and then and fire my gun; that

will send all the four-footed fishermen to the right-about." This

satisfied Galambos, who invoked God's blessing on his master, and

trotted away.

The deaf vine-dresser, the only other inhabitant of Timar's house, had

long been asleep. To add to his deafness, he had drunk so much good wine

that one might be certain his night's rest would be unbroken. Timar too

went to his room and stirred up his fire.

He was not sleepy; his excited brain required no rest. But there is

another form of repose; or is it not rest to sit near an open window and

look out on dumb nature? The moon had not yet risen; only the stars of

heaven shone down on the smooth ice. Their reflection was like rubies

spread on a blight steel plate, or the lights which flicker over graves

on Hallowe'en.

He gazed before him, and did not even think. He sat without any

sensation, either of cold or of his own pulses, neither of the outer nor

inner world--he only wondered. This was rest.

CHAPTER IV.

THE PHANTOM.

The stars glittered in heaven and sparkled from their frozen mirror: no

breath disturbed the silence of the night. Then Michael heard behind him

a voice which greeted him with "Good-evening, sir."

At the door of the bedroom stood, between the two lights of the lamp and

the fire, a figure, at sight of which Timar's blood ran cold. In the

bitter midnight, through the dense fog, he had fled from this specter

across the frozen Danube.

The man's dress was that of a naval officer, whose uniform had, however,

visibly suffered from storms and weather. The green cloth had altogether

faded on the shoulders, and some buttons were gone. The shoes, too, were

in sad condition. The soles had worn away at the tip so that the naked

toes were visible; over one shoe a piece of carpet was tied. The wearer

was suited to his ragged dress. A sunburned face with a neglected beard;

in place of the shaven mustache, a few bristly hairs; across the

forehead a black handkerchief covering one eye. This was the figure

which had wished Timar a good-evening.

"Krisstyan!" said Timar, very low.

"Yes, to be sure; your dear Theodor--your dear adopted son, Theodor

Krisstyan! How good of you to recognize me!"

"What do you want?"

"First, I want to have that gun in my own hands, lest it should remind

you of the words with which we parted last time--'If I ever appear

before you again, shoot me down.' Since then I have changed my mind." So

saying he seized Timar's gun, which leaned against the wall, threw

himself into a chair by the fire, and laid the gun across his knee.

"There, now we can talk quietly. I have come a long way, and I am

dreadfully tired. My equipage left me in the lurch, and I had to travel

part of the way on foot."

"What do you want here?" said Timar.

"First, a respectable suit, for what I am wearing bears signs of the

severity of the weather." Timar went to the closet, took out his pelisse

trimmed with astrakhan, and the rest of the suit, laid them on the

ground between himself and Krisstyan, and pointed to them in silence.

The vagrant held the gun in one hand, keeping his finger on the trigger,

lifted the clothes one by one with the other, and looked them over with

the air of a connoisseur.

"Very good--but there is something wanting to this coat. What do you

think it is? Why, of course, the purse."

Timar took his pocket-book from a drawer, and threw it over. The

vagabond caught it with one hand, opened it with the help of his teeth,

and counted the notes inside.

"We are getting on," he said, placing the pocket-book in the pocket of

the pelisse. "Might I ask for some linen? I have worn mine for a week,

and I fear it is hardly fit for company." Timar handed him a shirt out

of the wardrobe. "Now, I have got far enough to proceed to the toilet.

But first I have a few explanations to make in order to explain one or

two things to his honor the privy councilor. But why the devil should we

bother with titles! We are old friends, and can talk openly."

Timar sat down speechless by the table.

"So then, my dear fellow," said the fugitive, "you will remember that

you sent me some years ago to Brazil. How affected I was! I adopted you

as a father, and swore to be an honest man. But you did not send me over

there to make an honest man of me, but in order that I might not stand

in your way in this hemisphere. You calculated that a worthless youth,

without a good fiber in him, is sure to come to grief in that part of

the world. He either turns thief, or gets drowned, or somebody shoots

him--anyway, he would be got rid of. But you intrusted me with a large

sum of money. What was that to you? Only a stalking-horse. You reckoned

on my robbing you, so that you might arrest and imprison me; and so it

turned out. Once or twice I nearly did you the favor of dying of some

native plague, but unluckily for you I pulled through. And then I

devoted my whole energy to business; I robbed you of ten million reis.

Ha! ha! Spanish thieves reckon in half-kreutzers, so that the sum may

sound larger--it is not more than a hundred thousand gulden. If only you

knew what lovely necks the women there have, you would not think it too

much; and they will only wear real pearls. But your stupid agent, the

Spaniard, looked at it from a different point of view; he had me

arrested and tried, and the rascal of a judge sentenced me--just for a

foolish boyish trick--only think, to fifteen years at the galleys! Now,

just say, was it not barbarous?"

Timar shuddered.

"They took off my fine clothes, and in order that they might not lose

me, they branded me on the arm with a hot iron." The felon threw off his

uniform-coat as he spoke, drew his dirty shirt from his left shoulder,

and showed Timar, with a bitter laugh, the mark still fiery red on his

arm. "Look you, it was on your account that they branded me like a foal

or a calf, lest I should go astray. Don't be afraid--I would not run

away from you, even without that."

With morbid curiosity Timar gazed at the burn on the miserable wretch,

and could not turn his eyes away.

"After that, they dragged me to the galleys, and riveted one of my feet

to the bench with a ten-pound chain." With that he threw his torn shoe

from his foot, and showed Timar a deep wound on his raw ankle. "That

also I carry as a remembrance of you," sneered the escaped criminal.

Timar's eyes rested as if fascinated on the disfigured foot.

"But just think, comrade, how kind fate can be! The ways of Providence

are wonderful by which an unhappy sufferer is led to the arms of his

friends. On the same bench where they had been good enough to fasten me,

sat a respectable old man with a bushy beard. He was to be my bed-fellow

for fifteen years. It is natural to take a good look at a man who is

wedded to you for so long a time. I stared at him awhile, and then said

in Spanish, 'It seems to me, senor, as if I had met you before.' 'Your

eyes do not deceive you--may you be struck blind!' replied the amiable

individual. Then I addressed him in Turkish, 'Effendi, have you not been

in Turkey?' 'I have been there; what's that to you?' Then I said in

Hungarian, 'Were you not originally called Krisstyan?' The old fellow

was much surprised, and said, 'Yes.' 'Then, I am your son Theodor, your

dear Theodor, your only offspring!' Ha! ha! Thanks to you, friend, I

found my father, my long lost father, over there in the New World on the

galley-slave's bench. Providence in its wonderful way had united the

long-divided father and son! But may I beg you to give me a flask of

wine and something to eat, for I am thirsty and hungry, and have many

interesting things to tell you, which will amuse you intensely."

Timar did as he asked, and gave him bread and wine. The visitor sat at

the table, took the gun between his knees, and began to eat. He devoured

like a starved dog, and drank eagerly: at every draught he smacked his

lips, like an epicure who has dined well. And then he went on, with his

mouth full:

"After we had got over the first joy of the unexpected meeting, my dear

papa said, while he thumped me on the head, 'Now tell me, you

gallows-bird, how you got here?' Naturally my filial respect had

prevented me from addressing the like question to my parent. I told him

that I had defrauded a Hungarian gentleman named Timar of ten million

reis. 'And where did he steal all that?' was my old man's remark. I

explained that he never stole--that he was a rich landowner, merchant,

and trader. But that did not alter my father's opinion: 'All the same,

whoever has money stole it. He who has much stole much, and he who has

little stole little: if he did not steal it himself, his father or

grandfather did so. There are a hundred and thirty-three ways of

stealing, and only twenty-two of them lead to the galleys.' As I saw it

was useless to try and change my old man's opinion, I no longer disputed

the point. Then he asked me, 'How the devil did you come in contact with

this Timar?'

"I told him the circumstances. 'I knew this Timar when he was a poor

skipper, and had to wash his own potatoes in the ship's galley. Once I

was sent by the Turkish police to track an escaped pasha who had fled on

one of Timar's ships to Hungary.' 'What was his name?' growled my

father. 'Ali Tschorbadschi.' 'What!' he exclaimed, striking me on the

knee. He leaped up so that I thought he would jump overboard. Ha! ha! he

forgot the chain. . . . 'Did you know him too!' Then the old man shook

his head and said, 'Go on; what became of Ali Tschorbadschi?' 'I

detected him at Ogradina: I hurried on in front of the ship to Pancsova,

where every preparation was made to arrest him. But the vessel arrived

without the pasha. He had died on the way, and as he was not allowed

burial on shore they had thrown the corpse overboard. All this Timar

proved by documentary evidence.' 'And Timar was then quite poor?' 'No

richer than myself.' 'But now he has millions?' 'Of which I was lucky

enough to secure ten million reis.'

"'Now, you fool, you see I was right--he stole his wealth. From whom? he

killed the pasha and hid his money. I knew Ali Tschorbadschi--well. He

was a thief too, like every other man, especially like every other rich

man. He belonged to the 122d and 123d class of thieves. Under those

numbers we reckon governors and treasurers. He was in charge of the

treasures of another thief--the sultan himself, No. 133.

"'Once I found out that thief No. 132, the grand vizier, wished to twist

the treasurer's neck, to get back what he had stolen. I too was then in

the Turkish secret police; only a sort of No. 10, simply a fraudulent

bankrupt. I had a good idea: now if I could manage to push on into the

ranks of the No. 50 thieves! I went to the pasha, and revealed the

secret that he was on the list of rich men whom the minister meant to

strangle as conspirators, in order to secure their property. What would

he give me if I saved both him and his treasures? Ali Tschorbadschi

promised me a quarter of his wealth when once we should both be in

safety. "Yes," said I, "but I should like to know first how much the

whole comes to, for I will do nothing with my eyes shut. I am a family

man--I have a son whom I should like to settle in life."' Ha! ha! The

old man said it so seriously that it makes me laugh now to think of it.

'You have a son?' said the pasha to my father. 'That is well; if I

escape I will give my only daughter to your son, and so the whole

property will remain in the family: send me your son that I may know

him.' By God! if I had only known then that the lovely lady with the

white face and meeting brows was destined for me! Do you hear,

comrade?--but I must have another drink, to drown my grief. . . . You

will permit me to empty my glass to the health of your spouse, the

loveliest of ladies?"

The galley-slave rose with the courtesy of a prince and drank the toast.

Then he threw himself back in his chair, and drew breath through his

teeth like a man who has dined well. "My father agreed to the bargain.

'We decided,' said he, 'that Ali Tschorbadschi should pack his jewels in

a leather bag, which I was to take with me in an English ship, which

would convey me as an unsuspected person, with all my luggage, to Malta.

There I was to await Ali Tschorbadschi, who was to leave Stamboul as if

on a pleasure trip, with his daughter, but without any luggage, make his

way to the Piraeus, and thence by a Greek trader to Malta. The pasha

showed great confidence in me. He left me alone in the treasure-chamber,

so that his own visits there should not be noticed, and commissioned me

to select the most precious objects and pack them in the leather bag. I

could describe now all the jewels I chose. The antique gems, the girdles

of pearls, rings, agraffes, a casket full of diamonds--'

"'Could you not hide a few away?' asked I.

"'You ass's head!' he replied, 'why should I take a single diamond and

become thief No. 18, when it was in my power to steal them all?'

"Aha! my old father was a clever fellow! 'The devil I was! I was a

moon-calf. I ought to have done as you say. I stuffed my bag full, and

brought it to the pasha without arousing suspicion. He put a few

rouleaux of louis d'or among the jewels in the bag, closed it with a

puzzle-lock, and fastened lead seals to the four corners: then he sent

me for a _caique_, that I might get quietly away. I was back in a

quarter of an hour. He handed me the bag with the English steel

puzzle-lock and the four lead weights. I took it under my cloak and

slipped through the garden door to the boat; on the way I handled the

bag and felt the agraffes, the casket, and the rouleaux. In an hour I

was on board an English ship, the anchor was weighed, and we left the

Golden Horn.' 'And you never took me,' said I, with child-like reproach

to my papa, 'who was to marry the pasha's lovely daughter?' 'You fool!'

cried the old man, 'I didn't want you or your pasha or his lovely

daughter; I never meant to wait for you at Malta: with the money given

me for the journey I embarked direct for America, and the leather bag

went with me. But, confound it! when I got to a safe place I took out my

knife and slit the bag, and what do you think fell out of it?--copper

buttons, rusty horse-shoes, and instead of the casket full of diamonds,

a stone inkstand--in the rouleaux, instead of louis d'or were heavy

paras, the sort the corporals use for paying the private soldiers. The

rascally thief had robbed me! In all my 133 classes this had never

occurred; there was no number for it. While I went for the boat, the

thief had prepared another identical bag filled with all sorts of

rubbish, and sent me with it across the ocean, while he fled in another

direction with the real jewels. But look you, there is justice not only

on land but by water, for the great thief ran into the net of a still

greater, who robbed and murdered him.' And this tip-top thief, who

deprived the other of his property and his life was--you--brother of my

heart--Michael Timar Levetinczy, the man of gold!" said the fugitive, as

he rose and bowed mockingly.

Timar answered not a word.

"And now we will talk in a different way," said Theodor Krisstyan, "but

still at three paces' distance, and without forgetting that the gun is

aimed at you."

Timar looked indifferently down the muzzle of the gun. He had himself

loaded it with ball.

"This discovery considerably increased the sufferings of my slavery,"

continued the adventurer. "Instead of living comfortably on Ali's

treasure, I had to drag out a miserable existence on the hateful sea.

And why? Because Michael Timar had smuggled the treasures which were

intended for me from under my nose, and also the girl I should have

married, the fair little savage who had grown up for me on the desolate

island. Of her too Timar must needs defraud me, for he could not be

happy with the wife whose father he had killed; he must needs have a

mistress as well. Fy! Herr Timar. So it was for that you sent me to the

galleys for fifteen years."

Blow after blow fell on Timar's shame-stricken face. No doubt many of

these accusations were false--they were not all true. He had not

"killed" Timea's father, had not "stolen" his treasures; he had not

"defrauded" him of Noemi, nor "got rid of" Theodor, but on the whole he

could not entirely deny the charges. He had played a false game, and

thereby got mixed up in every sort of crime.

The deserter continued: "When we were lying in the Gulf of Rio Grande do

Sul, yellow fever broke out on board our ship. My father caught it, and

lay in the death agony beside me on the bench--no one removed him. It is

not the custom; a galley-slave must die where he is chained. This was a

horrible situation for me. The old man shivered with ague the whole day,

he swore and gnashed his teeth. He was unbearable with his continual

curses on the Blessed Virgin, which he always uttered in Hungarian. Why

did he not swear in Spanish? It sounds so fine, and then the rest would

have understood; and why should he swear at the Madonna? I could not put

up with it--there were plenty of other saints he could have maligned; it

is not the thing for an educated man, a gentleman, to speak ill of the

ladies. This caused a coolness between me and my old man. Not his deadly

fever, which I might catch, merely his insufferable language. Strong as

were the ties which united father and son, I decided to sever them, and

succeeded in escaping in company with two others. We filed our chains at

night, struck down the overseer, who had seen our proceedings, and threw

him into the sea; then we launched the small boat and set off. It was

very rough and our boat was swamped; one of my companions could not

swim, and got drowned; the other could swim, but not so well as the

shark which pursued him. I only knew by his shrieks that the sea-devil

had caught him and bitten him in two. I swam ashore. How I obtained this

naval uniform and the arms and money requisite for my passage, I will

tell you some other day over a glass of wine, when we have plenty of

time. But now let us conclude our business; for you know we have to

settle our account together."

The outcast put his hand up to the handkerchief over his eye. The slowly

healing wound seemed to be an unpleasant reminder. The severe cold to

which he had been exposed had not done it any good.

"I tried to get to Komorn, where I knew you had your permanent home, and

went to visit you. They said in your office that you had not yet come

from abroad; what country you were in no one knew. Very well, thought I,

then I will wait till he returns. To pass the time, I went to the cafes,

and made acquaintance with officers to whom my uniform was an

introduction, and then I visited the theaters. There I saw that

exquisitely beautiful lady with the marble face and the melancholy

eyes--you can guess whom I mean. With her was always another fair

lady--oh! what murderous eyes that one has; she is a corsair in

petticoats. I began to feel my way. Once I contrived to get a seat close

by the wicked angel, and paid her attentions which she received

graciously: when I asked leave to wait upon her, she referred to her

mistress, on whom everything depended. I spoke admiringly of that

awe-inspiring Madonna, and remarked that I had known her family in

Turkey, and that she resembled her mother very strongly.

"'What,' said the lovely lady, 'you knew her mother? she died very

young.' 'I have only seen her portrait,' said I. 'It portrayed just such

a pale, sad face, surrounded with a double row of diamonds of great

value.' 'You too have seen the splendid ornament then?' said she. 'My

mistress showed it me when Herr Timar von Levetinczy gave it to her.'"

Timar clinched his fists in impotent rage.

"Aha! now we know all about it," continued the adventurer, turning to

the tortured man with a cruel smile. "You gave Ali Tschorbadschi's

daughter the treasures you stole from her father. In that case the rest

of the jewels must have fallen into your hands, for they were with the

picture. You can no longer deny it. . . . And now we are on a level: we

need not scruple to talk openly."

Timar sat there paralyzed before the man into whose hands fate had

delivered him. It was unnecessary to keep his gun from him: Timar had

not strength to stand.

"You kept me waiting a long time, my friend, and I began to get anxious

about you; besides, my pocket-money was coming to an end. My rich aunt's

remittances, the advices from my steward, my bankers, and the admiralty,

for which I daily inquired at the post-office, failed to arrive--for

excellent reasons. You were highly respected wherever I went: an upright

merchant, a great genius, a benefactor to the poor. Your exemplary

private life was described; you were the model husband; wives would burn

your body when you died and dose their husbands with your ashes. Ha!

ha!"

Timar turned away his face.

"But perhaps I weary you? Well, I am coming to business. One day I was

in a bad temper, because you would not come home, and when some one

mentioned you at the officers' cafe, I could not refrain from casting a

doubt on the possibility of one man's uniting so many good qualities.

Then a ruffian replied with a slap in the face: I confess I was not

prepared for this; but my cheek deserved it--why had it not kept my

tongue quiet? I was as sorry as a dog that I ventured to let fall a

disrespectful word, and took the lesson to heart. I will never slander

you again. If the box on the ear had been all, I should not so much

have cared--I'm used to that; but the insolent fellow forced me to go

out with him, because I had attacked your good name. As I soon learned,

this madman was a lover of your Madonna when she was a girl, and now he

was fighting for the honor of the Madonna's husband. That is a piece of

good luck which could only happen to you, you man of gold. But I owe you

no thanks for your good fortune; again it was I who had to pay for it: I

got a cut over the head right down to the eyebrow. Look!"

He thrust aside the silken bandage, under which was visible a long scar

with a dirty plaster over it, the inflamed skin showing that the wound

was not healed. Timar looked at it with a shudder.

Krisstyan drew the bandage over it again, and said with cynical humor,

"That is _souvenir_ number three which your friendship has bestowed on

me. Well, there is all the more standing to my credit. I could not

remain any longer in Komorn after this; but 'Stay,' said I--'I know

where to have him; I know where the foreign country is whither he goes

in the interest of his fatherland: it is not in any unknown land--it is

none other than the ownerless island. I will follow him there.'"

At this Timar cried furiously, "What! you went to the island?" He

trembled with rage and fear.

"Don't jump up, young friend!" said the felon, soothingly. "This gun is

loaded; if you move it might go off, and I could not answer for the

consequences. Besides, calm yourself. It did you no harm for me to go

there, only myself; I always have to pay the piper when you go to the

ball--it's as certain as if it were one of the ten commandments--you

dance and I pay. You get into my bed, and it's me that they throw out of

window. Why did I go to the ownerless island? only to look for you. But

when I got there you had left, and I found no one but Noemi and a little

brat . . . oh, fy, friend Michael! who would have thought it of you?

. . . but hush! we mustn't tell anybody. . . . Dodi he's called, isn't

he? A fine, forward boy; but how frightened he was of me, because I had

my eye bound up! It is true that Noemi was startled too, for the two

were quite alone on the island. It grieved me to hear that good Mamma

Therese was dead; she was so kind, she would have received me

differently. Just fancy--this Noemi would not even let me come in and

sit down: she said she was afraid of me, and Dodi still more so, because

they were alone. 'That's just why I have come, that you may have a man

in the house to protect you.' By the bye, what potion have you given the

girl that she has grown so pretty? Really she has become a splendid

creature--it makes one's heart laugh to look at her; I never stopped

telling her so. Then she tried to make ugly faces at me; I began to jest

with her. 'Is it right,' said I, 'to make grimaces at your bridegroom?'

That did not answer; she called me a vagrant, and turned me out. 'All

right,' I said, 'I would go and take her with me,' and then I put my arm

round her waist." Timar's eyes flashed fire. "Sit still, comrade; _you_

need not jump up, but I had to, for the girl fetched me a box on the

ear--just about twice as hard as the one I got from the major. To be

accurate, I must acknowledge that she chose the other cheek, so as to

make it equal."

Timar's face brightened.

"Then I did get angry. I am well known to be an admirer of the fair sex,

but this insult demanded satisfaction. 'Well, I will just show you that

you will come with me, if you don't allow me to stop here. You will

follow me of your own accord'--and with that I took little Dodi's hand

to lead him away.

"Devil!" cried Timar.

"Gently, gently, we can't both speak at once; your turn will come, and

then you can talk as much as you like--but hear me out. I was not quite

right when I said there were only two on the island--there were three;

that confounded beast Almira was there. The dog had been lying under the

bed, and seemed not to notice me, but when the child began to cry, the

great brute flew out at me without being asked. I had my eye on her,

drew out my pistol quickly, and shot her through the body."

"Murderer!" groaned Timar.

"Nonsense! If I had no more on my conscience than that dog's blood! and

the beast was not even crippled by the ball; she made nothing of it. She

only flew at me more furiously than ever, bit me in the arm, threw me

down, and held me so that I could not move: in vain I tried to get at my

second pistol--she held my arm in her teeth like a tiger. At last I

entreated Noemi to set me free; she tried to get the beast away, but the

raging fiend only sent her teeth deeper in. Then Noemi said, 'Ask the

child--the dog will obey him.' I begged Dodi's help. The boy is

kind-hearted; he had pity on me, and put his arms round Almira; then the

dog let go, and the child kissed her." A tear ran down Timar's cheek.

"So I was provided with another memento," said Theodor Krisstyan, as he

pushed his dirty, blood-stained shirt-sleeve down from his shoulder.

"Look at the mark of the dog's bite; all three fangs went to the bone:

that is memorial number four, for which I have to thank you. I bear on

my skin a whole album of wounds which I owe to you: the brand, the

chain-sore, the sword-cut, and the dog's bite--all are remembrances of

your friendship. And now say, what shall I do to you that our account

may be balanced?"

As the escaped prisoner said to Timar, "And now say what shall I do to

you?" he stood entirely undressed before him, and Timar had to look at

all the horrible wounds with which he was scarred from head to foot

. . . and naked, too, the wretch's soul stood there, and it too was full

of loathsome wounds inflicted by Timar's hand.

The man knew that Timar had played a bold game with him; and now he was

at his mercy: even physically he had not power to cope with him; his

limbs were as feeble as those of a man overcome with sleep. The sight of

the scarred form had the unnerving effect of an evil spell. The

adventurer knew it, and no longer took precautions against him. Rising

from his chair, he leaned the gun in the corner and spoke over his

shoulder to Timar, "Now, then, for the toilet; while I dress you you can

think over your answer to my question, what I shall do with you."

With that he tossed his ragged clothes one after another into the fire,

where they flared crackling up, so that the flame rushed up the chimney.

Then he began to put on Timar's clothes in a leisurely way. On the

mantel-piece he found Timar's watch: this he put in his

waistcoat-pocket, and inserted Timar's studs in his shirt-front, finding

time to arrange his hair in the glass. When he was quite ready, he threw

up his head, and placed himself before the fire with outstretched legs

and folded arms. "Well; now then, comrade."

Timar began to speak. "What do you require of me?"

"Aha! at last I have loosed your tongue! How if I were to say an eye for

an eye, a tooth for a tooth? go and have a gallows-brand burned on you;

wander by land and sea among sharks, Indians, jaguars, rattlesnakes, and

secret police; be cut over the head by your wife's lover, be bitten by

your mistress's dog--and then we shall begin to share alike. But you see

I am not so hard on you; I won't talk about my wounds--a dog's bones

soon mend--I will be kinder than you. I must disappear for a time; for I

am wanted not only because of your money--my escape from the galleys,

and the overseer I threw overboard, are not yet forgiven. Your money

will do me no good till I get rid of the burn and the scar on the chin.

I shall get rid of the one with vitriol, and for the other mineral baths

will be of service. I am not afraid of your putting my pursuers on my

track--you are too wise for that; but foresight is the mother of wisdom.

In spite of our close friendship, it might happen that some one should

give me a knock on the head in the dark, or some convenient brigands

might shoot me, or a friendly glass of wine might send me the same road

as Ali Tschorbadschi. No, my dear fellow, I would not even venture to

ask you to fill me this wine-flask again, not even if you drank first. I

shall always be on my guard."

"What do you want then?"

"How formally you talk! my company is too low for you. But first let us

ask what the noble lord wants on his side. Probably that I should hold

my tongue over all the secrets I have got hold of. The noble lord would

perhaps not be disinclined to settle on me in return an income of a

hundred thousand francs in government stock."

Timar without hesitation replied, "Yes."

The vagabond laughed. "I require no such heavy sacrifice, your honor. I

told you money was no use to me at present. Such a gallows-bird, with so

many bad habits, would be arrested anywhere, and then what good should I

get of my income? What I want is, as I said, rest, and a place where I

can remain hidden for a considerable time, and where I should meanwhile

enjoy a comfortable, easy life; that is reasonable enough surely?"

With that he took the gun up again, sat down on the chair, and held the

gun before him in both hands, so as to be ready to fire at any moment.

"I do not ask the hundred thousand francs at present; I only demand--the

ownerless island."

Timar felt as if struck by lightning; these words roused him from his

stupor. "What do you want with it?"

"Illustrissimo! See now. The air of the island is excellent, and most

necessary to the re-establishment of my health, which suffered much in

South America. I have heard from that dear departed saint, Frau Therese,

that healing herbs grow there which are good for wounds; in botany

books I have read that they will even make boiled flesh sound again.

Then, too, I long for a quiet, contemplative life after all my trials;

after the sybarite existence I have led, I long for the rustic joys of

the golden age. Give me the ownerless island, excellency--serene

highness."

The fellow begged so mockingly with the gun in his hand.

"You are a fool," said Timar, whom these jeers enraged, and then he

turned his chair round and showed Theodor his back.

"Oh, don't turn your back on me, noble sir--senor, eccelenza, my lord,

durchlaucht, mynheer, pan volkompzsnye, monsieur, gospodin, effendi. In

what language shall I address you, to persuade you to grant the poor

fugitive's request?"

This unseemly mockery did not do the assailant any good, but lessened

the effect of the spell which lay on Timar, who began to recover from

his stupefaction, and to recollect that he had to deal with a condemned

man who was really in mortal danger. He spoke angrily. "Have done! Name

any sum--you shall have it! if you want an island, go and buy one in the

Greek Archipelago, or in China; if you are afraid of pursuit, go to

Rome, Naples, or Switzerland: give yourself out as a marquis, get on

terms with the Camorra, and no one will touch you; I will give you

money--but you won't get the island."

"Indeed? Your lordship is going to talk to me like that?" cried

Krisstyan. "The drowning man has risen again, and is going to swim

ashore--now just wait till I push you in again. You think to yourself,

'Very well, booby, tell any one what you know; the first result will be

that you will be arrested, clapped into jail, and forgotten there like a

dog; you will soon be too dumb to tell anything more--or something else

may happen.' I see what you think. But don't mistake the man you have to

deal with. Now learn that you are tied hand and foot, and that you lie

at my mercy like a miser gagged and bound by robbers, who must bear

thorns thrust under his nails, his beard plucked out hair by hair, and

boiling oil dropped on his skin, till he tells where his money is

hidden. I shall do the same with you; and when you can bear no more,

then cry 'enough.'"

Timar listened with the deadly interest of a man on the rack to the

words of the galley-slave. "Till now I have told not a soul what I know,

on my honor. Except the few words which escaped me at Komorn, I have

never spoken of you, and what I said then was neither fish nor flesh;

but all I know of you is written down--I have it here in my pocket, and

in four different documents, with different addresses. One is a

denunciation to the Turkish Government, in which I reveal what Ali

Tschorbadschi took from Stamboul, and what, as the confiscated property

of a traitor, is due to the sultan. Even the jewels described to me by

my father are enumerated there, piece by piece, with the account of

their present possessors, and of how they came by them. In the second

letter I inform the Viennese authorities of your murder of the pasha,

and your theft of his property. My third letter is directed to Frau von

Levetinczy at Komorn. I tell her what you did to her father, and how you

came into possession of her mother's picture and the other treasures you

presented to her. But I have told her something else besides--the place

you go to when you are not at home--the secret joys of the ownerless

island--the intrigue with another woman--the deceit you practice on her.

I tell her about Noemi and little Dodi. Now shall I drive another thorn

under your nails?"

Timar's breast heaved with heavy panting sobs.

"Well, as you say nothing, we will proceed," said the cruel torturer.

"The fourth letter is to Noemi. I tell her in it all she does not yet

know: that you have a lawful wife out in the world--that you are a

gentleman who has dishonored her, and can never be her husband; who only

sacrificed her to his base lusts, and who is a murderer besides. What!

you don't ask for mercy yet? Do you see those two towers? That is

Tihany; there live pious monks, for it is a monastery; there I shall

deposit the four letters, and beg the prior, if I do not return within a

week, to forward them to their addresses. It would be no use for you to

put me out of the way, for the letters would still reach their

destination, and then you could not stay any longer in this country. You

can not go home; for even if your wife forgave you her father's death,

she would never forgive you Noemi. Justice would make inquiries, and

then you would have to let out how you came by your riches.

"The Turkish Government would bring you to trial, and the Austrian too.

The whole world would soon learn to know you, and those who looked on

you as a man of gold, would see in you the very scum of humanity. You

could not even take refuge in the ownerless island, for there Noemi

would shut the door against you; she is a proud woman, and her love

would turn to hatred. No, there is nothing left to you but to fly from

the world, like me; change your name, like me; slink secretly from town

to town, and tremble when steps approach your door, like me. Now, shall

I go or stay?"

"Stay!" groaned the sufferer.

"Oho! you give in!" cried the rascal; "then let us sit down again.

First, will you give me the ownerless island?"

A feeble subterfuge occurred to Timar's heart, which he used to gain

time. "But the island belongs to Noemi, not to me."

"A very true observation; but my request is not altered by that fact.

The island belongs to Noemi, but Noemi belongs to you."

"What do you mean?" asked Timar, wildly.

"Now don't roll your eyes; don't you know you are fast bound? Let us

take it all as it comes. The thing can be arranged. You write a letter

to Noemi, which I will carry; meanwhile that fierce black brute will

have died, and I can land safely. In the letter you will take leave of

her; you will say that you cannot marry her, because unavoidable family

complications stand in the way; that you have a wife, the beautiful

Timea, whom Noemi will remember: you will write that you have taken care

to provide for her suitably; that you have recalled her former betrothed

from the New World, who is a fine handsome fellow, and ready to marry

her and shut his eyes to the past. You will promise to provide for them

both handsomely in the future, and give them your blessing and good

wishes for a happy life together!"

"You want Noemi too?"

"Why, what the devil! Do you think I want your stupid island in order

to live there like Robinson Crusoe? I shall want something to sweeten my

life in that desert. Over there I have reveled in a surfeit of embraces

from black-eyed, sable-tressed women; now, after seeing Noemi's golden

locks and blue eyes, I am quite mad about her. And then she struck me in

the face, and drove me away; I must have payment for that. Is there a

nobler revenge than to give a kiss for a blow? I will be the master of

the refractory witch; that is my fancy. And by what right do you deny

her to me? Am I not Noemi's betrothed, who would make her my legal wife

and bring her to honor, while you can never marry her, and can only make

her unhappy?"

The man drops boiling oil on Timar's heart: he wrung his hands in agony.

"Will you write to Noemi, or shall I take these four letters over to the

cloister?"

In Timar's torture the words escaped him, "Oh, my little Dodi!"

The fugitive laughed with a knavish grin. "I'll be his father, a very

good sort of father--"

At that instant Michael sprung from his seat, threw himself with a leap

like a jaguar's on the convict, seized him by both arms before he could

use his weapon, dragged him forward, gave him a blow in the back and a

shove which sent him flying through the open door on to the landing,

tumbling over and over: there he got up with difficulty, still giddy

with his fall, stumbled over the first step, and limped groaning and

swearing down the stairs. All below was darkness and silence. The only

man besides these two in this winter castle was deaf, and sleeping off a

carouse.

CHAPTER V.

WHAT HAS THE MOON TO TELL?

Timar could have killed the man--he had him in his power; and Timar felt

a madman's strength in his muscles: yet he did not kill him. Timar said

to himself, the man is right; destiny must be fulfilled. Michael was not

a miscreant who conceals one crime by another, but of that nobler sort

which is willing to atone for past sin. He stepped out on to the

balcony, and looked on with folded arms while the man left the castle

and limped away toward the gate of the court-yard. The moon rose

meanwhile over the Somogy hills, and illuminated the front of the

castle.

The dark figure on the balcony would be a good mark for any one who

wished to aim at it. Theodor Krisstyan walked underneath, and looked up:

the half-closed wound on the brow had reopened in his fall, and was

bleeding; the blood ran down over his face. Perhaps Timar had gone

outside just because he expected the furious man would shoot him out of

revenge. But he only stood still in front of him, and began to mutter

words without sound--just like Athalie. How well those two would suit!

Krisstyan only spoke by movements of the mouth. He limped, for he had

hurt one foot in his fall. He struck his left hand on the gun, which he

still held, then seemed to say "No," shook his fist at Timar, and

threatened him by gestures. This pantomime meant, "Not thus will I

destroy you; I have another fate designed for you; just wait!" Timar

looked after him as he left the yard, following him with his eyes along

the snowy path as far as the ice-covered lake. He gazed after him till

he could only see a black speck moving in the direction of the double

towers on the high peak.

Storm-clouds were rising over the Zala range. Timar saw them not. Round

the Platten See a hurricane often arises in calm weather without the

slightest warning; the fishermen who hear from afar the rustling of the

leaves have not time to get back to the shore: the bursting storm drives

a snow-cloud before it, from which tiny crystals drift down, sharp as

needle-points. The cloud only covered half of the great panorama,

wrapping the Tihany side, the peninsula with its rocky ridge and its

gloomy church, in darkness, while the eastern level lay bright in the

moonlight. The storm roared howling through the tall forests of the

Aracs valley; the vanes on the ancient castle groaned like the cries of

accursed spirits; and as the furious wind swept across the ice, it drew

from the frozen floes such an unearthly music that one could fancy one

saw the spirits which uttered it chasing each other, and yelling in

their flight.

Amidst the ghostly music it seemed to Timar as if he heard through the

howling of the tempest an awful scream in the distance, such as only

human lips can utter--a cry of anguish, despair, blasphemy, which would

rouse the Seven Sleepers and make the stars shudder. After a few seconds

it came again, but shorter and more feeble, and then only the music of

the storm was audible.

That ceased too. The snow-shower swept across the landscape; the storm

held only one snow-cloud; the trees were still; the tones of the wind

moaning over the ice-flats faded away in the distance with dying chords;

the sky cleared, and all was once more silence. Timar's heart too was at

rest; he had finished his career. No road lay open to him. He could go

neither forward nor back; he had fled as long as life was possible; and

now the abyss yawned in front of him which had no other shore. His whole

life passed before him like a dream, and he knew that at last he was

about to awake from it. His first desire for the possession of the rich

and lovely girl was the origin of all these events; his life hung on it

like the enigma of the Sphinx. When the riddle was solved, the Sphinx

would fall into the abyss.

How could he live on, unmasked before the world, unmasked before Timea,

and before Noemi? Thrown down from the pedestal on which he had stood

for years at home and abroad, under the halo of his sovereign's favor

and his compatriots' veneration! How could he ever look again on the

woman who had defended him in his rival's presence with such holy

sorrow, when she learned that he was the very opposite of all she had

admired in her husband, and that his whole life was a lie? And how could

he meet Noemi when she knew he was Timea's husband? or dare to take Dodi

on his lap? Nowhere, nowhere in the wide world was there a place where

he could hide. It was as that man had said: there was nothing for him

but to turn his back on the civilized world--like him; to change his

name--like him; to sneak like a thief from one town to another--like

him; to wander homeless on the face of the earth. . . .

But Timar knew of another place; there is the moon's icy

countenance--what did Noemi say? There live those who cast their lives

away because they have ceased to know desire; they go where nothing

exists: if that man seeks out Noemi on the ownerless island and brings

despair on the lonely creature by his news, she will follow him

there--to the frozen star.

Timar felt so tranquilized by this reflection that he had the

self-control to direct his telescope on to the waning moon, on whose

sphere shining spaces alternated with large, crescent-shaped shadows,

and there came to choose a monstrous ravine, and say, "That shall be my

dwelling; there will I wait for Noemi!"

Then he went back to his room. The adventurer's burned clothes still

glowed red on the hearth, the ashes showing the texture of the charred

cloth. Timar laid fresh logs on, so that the fire might destroy every

remnant. Then he threw on his cloak and left the house. He bent his

steps toward the Platten See. The moon lighted the great ice-floes, an

icy sun shining over a world of ice. . . . "I come, I come!" cried

Timar; "I shall soon know what you have to tell me--if you have called

me I shall be there." He went straight to the great chasm. The poles

erected by the good fishermen, the sticks with straw bundles on the top,

warned every wanderer from afar to keep away--Timar sought them out.

When he reached one of these danger-signals he stopped, took off his

hat, and looked up to heaven.

Years had passed away since last he prayed. In this dark hour the Great

Being came to his mind who teaches the stars their courses and rides on

the storm, and who has created only one creature which defies its

Maker--man. In this hour he was impelled to uplift his soul to Him.

"Eternal Might, I fly from Thee, yet to Thee I come. I come not to ask

for mercy: Thou didst lead me, but I fled from Thy ways; Thou didst warn

me, yet I would not hear. Now, with blind obedience, I depart for the

hereafter: my soul will rest there in cold annihilation. I must atone

for making so many miserable who have been mine and have loved me; take

them into Thy protection, Thou Eternal Justice! I have sinned, and I

give myself up to death and damnation--they are not guilty--I alone.

Thou Everlasting Justice, who hast brought me to this, be just also to

them. Protect, console these feeble women, the helpless child, and give

me alone over to Thine avenging angels--I am judged and I am silent."

He knelt down. Between the edges of the fissure the waves of the Balaton

plashed softly. The gloomy lake often moans even in a dead calm, and

when its surface is ice-bound it swells up in the clefts and roars like

the sea. Timar bent down to kiss the waves, as one kisses his mother

before he starts for a long journey--as one kisses the pistol before

blowing out one's brains with it.

And as he bent down to the water, a human head rose from the depths in

front of him. Over the forehead of the upturned face was a black band

covering the right eye; the other eye, bloodshot, glassy, and cold as

stone, glared at him; through the open mouth the water ran out and in

. . . the phantom sunk again.

Timar sprung, half crazed, from his kneeling position, and stared after

the ghostly apparition: it was as if it called on him to follow. Between

the frozen margins the living water splashed. And again in the distance

resounded the organ-tones which are the precursors of the nocturnal

storm: amidst the howling of the approaching gale were heard the shrieks

and groans of the miserable spirits, and higher and higher swelled the

ghostly song. Again the whole frozen mass gave out the unearthly music,

like the strings of myriad harps, until the sound grew into a booming

roar, as though the lightning lured an awful, deafening melody from the

resounding waves. The voices of the storm bellowed below the surface.

With a frightful crash the floes were set in motion, and the tremendous

pressure of the atmosphere closed once more the chasm in the ice.

Timar fell trembling on his face upon the still quivering glassy mirror.

CHAPTER VI.

WHO COMES?

The hoar-frost had turned the ownerless island into a silver wood;

continuous mists had hung every twig with flowers of rime. Then came

bright sunny days; they melted the rime into ice: every branch received

a crystal cloak, as if the whole island were of glass. This glistening

load bent down the boughs like those of a weeping-willow, and when the

wind stirred the wood, the icicles struck together and rang like the

silver bells in the fairy stories. Over the thickly frosted paths only

one track led from the house, and that went to Therese's resting-place.

This was Noemi's daily walk with little Dodi. Now there were only those

two to go there; the third, Almira, lay at home at the last gasp: the

ball had touched a vital part, and there was no hope of cure.

It was evening. Noemi lighted her lamp, brought out her wheel, and began

to spin. Little Dodi sat by her and played at water-mills, holding a

straw against the revolving wheel.

"Mother," said the boy suddenly, "bend down a little; I want to whisper

that Almira may not hear."

"Say it aloud; she won't understand, Dodi."

"Oh, yes, she understands what we say--she knows everything. Tell me,

will Almira die?"

"Yes, my little one."

"And who will take care of us when Almira is dead?"

"God."

"Is God strong?"

"Stronger than all the world."

"More than father?"

"Your father gets his strength from God."

"And the wicked man with his eye bandaged, why does God make him strong?

I am so afraid of his coming again; he will take me away."

"Don't be afraid; I won't let you go."

"If he kills us both?"

"Then we shall both go to heaven."

"And Almira too?"

"No; not Almira."

"Why not?"

"Because she is an animal."

"And my little bird?"

"No; not Louise."

"Oh, don't say that; she can fly up to heaven better than we can."

"She can not fly as high as heaven."

"Then there are no animals and no birds there? Well, then, I'd rather

stop down here with papa and my little Louise."

"Yes, stay, my sweetheart!"

"If papa were here he would kill the wicked man?"

"The bad man would run away from him."

"But when is father coming back?"

"This winter."

"How do you know?"

"He said so."

"Is everything true that father says? Does he never tell a story?"

"No, my boy; what he says is always true."

"But it is winter now."

"He will soon be here."

"If only Almira does not die before he comes!"

The boy got up from his stool and went to the groaning dog.

"Dear Almira, do not die! Don't leave us alone here! See, now, you can't

go with us to heaven; you can only be with us here. Do stay. I will

build you a lovely house like the one father built for me, and give you

half of all I have. Lay your head on my lap and look at me. Don't be

frightened; I won't let the naughty man come and shoot you again. If I

hear him coming, I will fasten the door-latch; and if he puts his hand

in, I will cut it off with my ax. I will take care of you, Almira."

The wise creature raised its beautiful eyes to the boy, and wagged its

tail gently on the ground; then it sighed, as if understanding all that

was said. Noemi stopped spinning, leaned her head on her hand, and

looked into the flickering lamp.

When that dreadful man went raging away, he had yelled in at the window,

"I shall come back and tell you what the man is whom you love." That he

should come again was threat enough, but what did he mean? Who can

Michael be? Can he be other than he seems? What will that horrid phantom

have to tell, which has turned up from the antipodes? Oh, why had

Michael not done as Noemi said--if only three feet of earth lay between

them!

Noemi was no feeble woman; she had grown up in the desert and learned to

trust in herself; the enervating influences of the outer world had never

affected her mind. The wolf knows how to defend her lair against the

dogs with claws and teeth. Since that fearful visit she always carried

Michael's knife in her bosom, and--it is keen and sharp. At night she

fastened a beam across the door.

As fate wills. If one comes first, she will be a happy and blessed

woman; if the other, she will be a murderess--a child of wrath.

"Almira, what is the matter?"

The poor beast, struggling with death, raised its head painfully from

the child's lap, and began to sniff the air with outstretched neck. It

whined and growled uneasily, but the sound was more like a hoarse

rattle. Whether its tones were of pleasure or anger, it was hard to

distinguish. The animal scented the approach of a visitor. Who is it? Is

it the good or the bad man? the life-giver or the murderer? Out there in

the silence of the night the sound of steps was heard on the frosty

grass. Who comes?

Almira gasped heavily, struggling to get up, but fell back. She tried to

bark, but could not. Noemi sprung from her seat, felt with her right

hand under her shawl, and seized the handle of the knife.

All three listened silently--Noemi, Dodi, and the dog. The steps come

quickly nearer. Ah, now all three recognize them!

"Papa!" cried Dodi, laughing.

Noemi hastened to cut the rope which fastened the door-bolt with her

sharp knife, and Almira raised herself on her fore-feet and suddenly

gave utterance to a bark.

The next moment Michael had Noemi and Dodi in his arms. Almira crawled

to her beloved master, raised her head to him once again, licked his

hand, then fell back dead.

"Will you never leave us again?" faltered Noemi.

"Don't leave us alone any more," begged little Dodi.

Michael pressed both to his breast, and his tears streamed over his dear

ones. "Never--never--never!"

CHAPTER VII.

THE CORPSE.

With the last days of March the hard winter of this year came to an end.

Balmy south winds and rain softened the ice of the Platten See, which

broke up during a strong north wind, and drove over to the Somogy shore.

Among the floating ice the fishermen found a body. It was already in an

advanced stage of decomposition, and the features were unrecognizable;

but yet the identity of the individual could be ascertained with the

greatest certainty. These were the mortal remains of Michael Timar

Levetinczy, who disappeared so suddenly after the memorable capture of

the fogasch-king, and for whose return those at home had waited so long.

On the body could be recognized clothes belonging to that gentleman--his

astrakhan pelisse, his studs, and his initials marked on the shirt. His

repeater was in the waistcoat-pocket, with his full name enameled on the

case. But the strongest proof was afforded by the pocket-book, which was

crammed with bank-notes, whose number could still be deciphered, and on

which Timea's hand had embroidered "Faith, Hope, Charity;" while in the

side-pocket were four other letters tied together, but the writing was

completely obliterated, as they had been four months exposed to the

action of water. About the same time, the fishermen at Fured found Herr

von Levetinczy's gun entangled in a net. Now all was explained.

Old Galambos remembered all about it. The gracious master had said to

him that if foxes and wolves came down on to the lake in the night, he

would go out with his gun and have a shot at them.

Many others then remembered that on that night a snow-storm had passed

across the lake, which only lasted a short time. No doubt, to this was

due the accident to the noble lord. The snow blew in his face; he did

not notice the ice-rift, fell in, and was sucked under.

When Timea received the first news of the event, she went at once to

Siosok, and was present in person at the judicial inquiry. When she saw

her husband's clothes she fainted away, and could only with difficulty

he brought back to consciousness; but she held her ground, she was

present when the disfigured remains were laid in the leaden coffin, and

specially inquired for the ring of betrothal, which, however, was

lost--the fingers were gone.

Timea had the dear relics brought to Komorn, and interred in the

splendid family vault, with all the pomp which is permissible by the

rites of the Protestant Church, to which the deceased had belonged. On

the black velvet coffin, name and age were marked with silver nails.

Senators and deputies carried him to the hearse. On the coffin lay his

knightly sword, with a laurel crown, and the decorations of the

Hungarian Order of St. Stephen, the Italian Order of San Maurizio, and

the Brazilian Annunciata star.

The pall-bearers were Hungarian counts, and on each side of the hearse

walked the dignitaries of the city. Before it marched the

school-children, the guilds with their banners, then the national guard

in uniform and with muffled drums: behind came the ladies of the town

all in black, and among them the mourning widow, with the white face and

with weeping eyes. The celebrities of the country and the capital, the

military authorities, even his majesty had sent a representative to the

funeral of the venerated man. With them went a countless multitude of

people, and amidst the tolling of all the bells the procession moved

through the town. And every bell and every tongue proclaimed that a man

was gone whose like would never be seen again: a benefactor of the

people, a pillar of the nation, a faithful husband, and the founder of

many a generous endowment.

The "Man of Gold" was carried to his grave. Women, men, and children

followed him through the whole town to the distant cemetery. Athalie too

was in the procession. When they bore the coffin down to the open grave,

the nearest friends, relations, and admirers of the deeply mourned

followed him into the vault.